


Set

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1952487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julian and Garak work out in a holosuite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Set

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks to Abbeyjewel for the idea! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The uneven pavement he bolts across is synthetic, but the thin sheen of sweat dripping down his face is entirely real. When Julian’s racket collides with the ball, he feels the vibrations all the way up to his shoulder. Garak always hits it too hard. Julian has to match it. At first, it was just a friendly game. 

Holodeck time with Garak, much like lunch with Garak, like _anything_ with Garak, is never quite ‘friendly.’

The ball zooms over the net, and in a flash of grey and sweat-slicked white, Garak meets it, smashing it back across the court. Julian’s forced to dart to the other side, backhanding it again, breathing so hard his lungs might jump out of his chest. A game with Miles would’ve been done an hour ago. Garak’s not Miles. He says he’s just a _tailor_ , but he moves like a pro. A pro at what, Julian will never be quite sure. Tennis isn’t a difficult game to grasp, and Garak’s mastered it in a few sessions. Now he has Julian panting and racing and actually trying to keep up: no more holding back, not like he does with every other person he challenges. Garak already knows anyway. Garak stops the ball flat, and it just barely teeters over the net, the skill in Garak’s angle having robbed it of all its speed. Julian has to dive forward to catch it after a single bounce, and it feebly rebounds over to Garak’s side. Garak smashes it past Julian’s shoulder, and Julian, running on sheer instinct, spins around and hits it back without even looking. 

Another volley and he’s back to his regular spot, being sent back and forth again, always prepared; he isn’t going to fall for another feint. It’s too thrilling to see the familiar smirk on Garak’s face; he should be furious. But Garak’s smugness never quite has that affect. Knowing Garak’s proud of him is... a pleasant feeling. 

Better still is the rest of the Cardassian visual before him. The usual well-cut jacket’s been stripped aside, leaving trim pants and a thin, plain shirt, stuck to Garak’s body and soaking through. Julian would feel at a disadvantage, given a distraction like that, but his own, similar attire is no better, and he’s seen Garak’s eyes stray from the ball more than once. When it comes back to him, Julian opens his mouth, carefully running his tongue along his bottom lip and letting his eyelids lower half-way—he sends Garak his best come-hither bedroom look, just as he sends the ball clear to the other side.

Garak pauses only a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. He runs, but he doesn’t make it, and though his racket connects, the ball ricochets out of bounds. Julian lets out a louder cheer than he should—he’d never taunt Miles like this—but he can’t help it; he can feel his dimples growing with his grin. He pushes a few stray hairs and sweat drops back off his forehead, finally able to breathe. 

Garak shakes his head but walks to the net as amiably as ever, smiling just as much as Julian is. But then, Garak always smiles for different reasons. Julian’s in too good a mood to care—he hasn’t had this much of a work out since the last time he had the weekend off and spent it in Garak’s quarters. 

He nearly drops his racket but takes it with him to the net anyway—it’s real. Garak’s already got his hand held out, fingers slightly pink with exertion. He dresses modestly, and it’s rare for Julian to see his bare arms outside the bed or washroom, so Julian takes the chance to look now. With the match finally won, he can ogle his boyfriend all he wants, and he sighs, clasping Garak’s palm, “Good game.”

“I could say the same to you, my dear,” Garak quips, gripping Julian’s hand with that subtle squeeze he always does: the silent mark of possession, like he wants to tug Julian closer or at least let Julian know that he could. Julian’s eyes are already lit, blood already rushing. They’re supposed to shake hands and let go, but Garak’s touches always linger.

Julian glances down at their hands—past that to where Garak’s shirt is tucked into his pants, clinging to the hard muscles of his stomach and the arched ridges around his hips. Julian licks his lips again, not as a ploy this time, and concedes, “You gave me a run for my money, there.” When he looks back at Garak’s face, he finds the heat he wanted behind the pleasant mask. “It could’ve been anyone’s game.”

“No,” Garak insists: typical. “I’m afraid you have quite a few years on me, doctor. A man of my age can’t be expected to keep up with a young, spry thing like you for very long.”

“You’re tired, then?” Julian teases.

Garak’s smirk reaches his eyes. “Exhausted.”

“I see. Perhaps you should lie down.”

“And here I thought you’d want to be collecting your prize right away.” The way his thumb lightly strokes the back of Julian’s hand says that he isn’t nearly so tired. Julian remembers the bet too well: similar stakes to what they always place. He tends to enjoy the outcome whoever wins, but there’s satisfaction in his victory. 

Julian turns his head to glance at the panel imbedded in the wall of the closed-off room, noting as though it’s just occurring to him, “I think Quark has these suites programmed for more than sports. Surely we could make something for you to lie down on. And maybe take care of my prize, too...”

“What’s the expression?” Garak muses. “Kill two birds with one stone?”

“Sounds rather Cardassian, doesn’t it?” They’ve had this conversation before. Garak’s smile says his approval, and Julian skips to, “Computer: delete the net.”

The thin mesh between them disappears. Julian’s not sure which of them first tugs the other across the space, but the important thing is that Julian’s got his tongue in Garak’s mouth, hands drifting down to his prize.


End file.
